“You may go,” said he, and seating himself at the desk, proceeded to an examination of his newly acquired property. The newspapers in the scrap basket, mainly copies of the _Evening Register_, seemed to contain, upon cursory examination, nothing germane to the issue. But, scattered among them, the searcher found a number of fibrous chips. They were short and thick; such chips as might be made by cutting a bamboo pole into cross lengths, convenient for carrying. “The ‘spirit-wand’,” observed Average Jones with gusto. “That was the ‘little package,’ of course.” Next, he turned his attention to the desk. It was bare, except for a few scraps of paper and some writing implements. But in a crevice there shone a glimmer of glass. With a careful finger-nail Average Jones pushed out a small phial. It had evidently been sealed with lead. Nothing was in it. Its discoverer leaned back and contemplated it with stiffened eyelids. For, upon its tiny, improvised label was scrawled the “Mercy sign;” mysterious before, now all but incredible. For silent minutes Average Jones sat bemused. Then, turning in a messenger call, he drew to him a sheet of paper upon which he slowly and consideringly wrote a few words. “You get a dollar extra if this reaches the advertising desk of the _Register_ office within half an hour,” he advised the uniformed urchin who answered the call. The modern mercury seized the paper and fled forthwith. Punctuality was a virtue which Average Jones had cultivated to the point of a fad. Hence it was with some discountenance that his clerk was obliged to apologize for his lateness, first, at 4 P. M. Of July 23, to a very dapper and spruce young gentleman in pale mauve spats, who wouldn’t give his name; then at 4:05 P. m. of the same day to Professor Gehren, of the Metropolitan University; and finally at 4:30 P. m. to Mr. Robert Bertram. When, only a moment before five, the Ad-Visor entered, the manner of his apology was more absent than fervent. Bertram held out a newspaper to him. “Cast your eye on that,” said he. “The _Register_ fairly reeks with freaks lately.” Average Jones read aloud. SMITH-PERKINS, formerly 74 Bellair—Send map present location H. C. Turkish Triumph about smoked out. MERCY—Box 34, Office. “Oh, I don’t know about its being so freakish,” said Average Jones. “Nonsense! Look at it! Turkish Triumph—that’s a cigarette, isn’t it? H. C.—what’s that? And signed Mercy. Why, it’s the work of a lunatic!” “It’s my work,” observed Average Jones blandly. The three visitors stared a him in silence. “Rather a forlorn hope, but sometimes a bluff will go,” he continued. “If H. C. indicates Harvey Craig, as I infer,” said Professor Gehren impatiently, “are you so infantile as to suppose that his murderer will give information about him?” Average Jones smiled, drew a letter from his pocket, glanced at it and called for a number in Hackensack.